


Hang on to yourself - Chapter 3

by basaltgrrl, debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray and Sam have words. Ray would rather have a punch-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang on to yourself - Chapter 3

There was no air in Gene's office. It was warm and smelled of sweat, years of musty paperwork and half-smoked cigarettes. 

Gene's unfinished cup of coffee still stood amongst the mess of papers on the desktop blotter. Sam stared into the cup. There was a fly in the dark liquid kicking its legs in the scum like it was doing the backstroke, but going nowhere. He'd kept the cup Gene had drunk from; it was real, part of Gene. Keeping it meant Gene was coming back. _I'll be back_ , Gene had promised. If he couldn't believe his best friend, who could he believe?

Sam pulled Gene's chair up to the desk. He wanted to write up his notes of his interview with Brian Matthews before the afternoon briefing with Superintendent Rathbone. He'd be wanting the details of the local man's arrest and whether or not Sam had been able to get anything out of Matthews that would tie Carl Reynolds to the murders. 

Reynolds was a typical bit of lowlife but with a right mean streak. Big trouble wherever he was. A dead body or two, and Reynolds was definitely involved. And Gene was in there, gathering evidence. He'd be all right--if he could keep his mouth shut.

Sam put his hands on the edge of the desk. He ran his fingers over the wood. It was cool, like his hands. Not like when his fingers had moved smoothly over Gene's warm body, coming to rest in the glistening sweat in the small of his back. 

Sam pressed the play button of the tape recorder. “Interview commenced at eleven fifteen pm, Thursday, twenty-first--”

Sam was aware of Ray, hanging about in the doorway, studying him. He pressed stop and looked at the DS, wondering why he didn't come farther into the room. “Are you coming in, then?” he asked.

The door to Gene's office thumped shut, shutting out the CID room. Ray made his way into the room, his hands fisted at his sides as if he was readying himself for a punch-up with Sam. He shoved his hands into his pockets and settled himself, slouching into a chair with his feet stuck out in front of him.

Sam waited, but Ray was uncharacteristically tight-lipped. They didn't speak to each other for a minute. Ray was looking at him with that mocking expression that told Sam he merely stood in Gene's shadow … and Ray was never going to let him forget it. His posture was a further indication of disrespect; a lowering of standards that Ray would never show Gene. “Ray? Something on your mind?” he asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt. 

“He's not back.” 

“That's right.” 

Ray's jaw tightened. “Has he been in touch?”

“He rang me a few hours before we picked up Matthews. He's okay.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ray wasn't convinced. “You speak to the waste of space yet?”

“There was a formal interview with Matthews last night. He didn't cooperate. Obviously, he remains our priority. I'll be interviewing him again today.”

Ray snorted then he looked at Sam like he was a bleeding nutter. “Bugger that.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Let me have at him. A proper grilling. He'll be happy to talk.”

Sam put his hands flat on the desk and pushed Gene's chair back. He stood up slowly. “And let you take the piss with him.” 

“I'd thump him,” Ray admitted. “It's what I'd do--for a friend.” Sam met Ray's eyes. There was contempt in them, impatience. “But you're not me, are you, Boss? Are you're going to let him down, then?” 

The words hung there, between them. “No, Ray. I'm not going to let him down.” 

“What are you waiting for? Until it's too bloody late!”

“What I want from you is--”

“Not that you'd do anything but give me orders. Well, I know what's right and what isn't--” Ray jumped up from his chair and lunged at Sam.

Sam grabbed Ray's arm and bent it, forcing him around. 

“Hey!” he protested, with a howl.

“We can fall out or have a nice little chat. Are you with me?”

“Do what you want. See if I care.”

Sam let go of him. “Are you with me on this?” Ray must not have heard him repeat his question because he walked away. Sam looked down and shook his head. He saw the fly floating on top of the coffee. It was dead. 

*****

The Railway Arms smelled of cheap aftershave and perspiration. Cigarette smoke was suspended in the room like a mist. The pub was full of coppers and half-empty pints littered the tables. Two men were playing an informal game of darts. An image of Gene leaning on the wooden bar, one leg propped up on a stool, smiling at him through the smoke, entered Sam's mind for a moment then was gone.

The barman, Nelson, was mopping the woodwork with a towel. He was wearing an orange shirt covered by a lime green sweater vest. He paused in front of Sam, his hand still moving the towel in a clockwise motion. 

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Ray and Chris coming toward him. He looked up from his stool as Ray stood over him. 

“You're drunk,” Sam said.

“Get up.”

“Not now, Ray.”

“Get. Up.”

“What do you want?”

Chris tugged at Ray's sleeve. “What are you doing, Ray?” 

“Yeah, I've been drinking. So what?”

Chris pulled on Ray's sleeve. “Come on, let's go back to our table.”

Ray jerked his arm away, stumbling against the bar. “Don't just sit there like the bastard you are. Stand up.”

Sam held up his palms. “Listen, leave me alone, will you?”

“I'll knock you down, Tyler.” 

Sam got to his feet. “Don't touch me.”

Swaying, Ray grabbed Sam's shirt front. Sam could smell ale on his breath. Sam stiffened then grinned and raised his arm, making his hand into a fist. 

Nelson leaned across the bar top and made a noise of disapproval. “Not tonight, my friends. I set the rules here. This is a respectable pub.”

Ray shrugged himself free. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I was just messing with him.” Then something else caught his attention and he wandered off.

“Sorry,” Chris said, offering an apologetic smile. He trailed after Ray like a new puppy.

Nelson looked at Sam, assessing him like he knew all his secrets. “I know what you're thinking, Sam.” 

“First, a drink.”

“What's it to be?”

“Pint of bitter.” Sam sank on to the stool.

The barman pulled the pint, rang up the sale then came back, his dreadlocks swinging. He set the beer in front of Sam. “You're wondering what else Mr. Hunt could have done.”

Sam wrapped his hand around the beer glass. “Gene wanted to go in solo.”

“It was a mistake.”

Sam laughed without humour. “Jesus, Nelson, not you, too.”

“But mistakes are the foundations of truth.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Sam sighed. “I had something and then I lost it. How do you think that feels, Nelson?” Sam lifted the glass to his mouth and took a swallow of the beer. At that moment, the phone on the bar top began to ring. 

The barman lifted the handset, listened and handed it to Sam. “For you, Mon Brave. Henry.”

Sam wiped the back of his hand over his chin then took the phone. “Hi, it's me.”

“Of course, it is, you idiot. I asked for you, didn't I?”

Sam grinned. “Where are you?”

“Stopped off at a Paki shop. Picking up fags. You know it, Mr. Chowdhury's.”

_ He's from Bangladesh not Pakistan.  _ “Yes, I do,” Sam replied. “Is everything going okay?”

“I've got a lot on my mind right now. Everything that's happened. I may have to tear Reynolds apart then eat him for tea. Would solve all our problems.”

“I don't doubt it.” He shot a look at Nelson, but he'd turned his back on him, pretending not to be listening. “Are you sober?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I've had a few. And so have you, I reckon. I don't need you hounding me, Sam. What about Matthews? ”

“He's mum.”

Gene grunted. “You're always thorough, but next time it might be better if you use Ray. So, what do you say, eh?” 

“Say to Ray? No, damn it! We can do this civilised.”

“Never mind your bloody principles. Let's see if Ray can do better. For starters, he's as big a bugger as Matthews.”

Sam glanced down at his beer in silence.

“Are you listening to me?” Gene asked.

“I can hear quite well.”

“Think of it as torment ... not torture.”

Sam snorted. “Don't think of it as torture, think of it as torment,” he muttered to himself. “Bullshit.”

Gene laughed. “Meantime, we're going to play robbers,” he said, his voice subdued. “A lot of money involved.”

“Sounds like something. When?” A glass broke. “Henry, are you there?” There was laughter. It was so loud Sam turned to look. Ray. _Cut it out, you idiot_. Couldn't he see he was worried? Sam stuck a finger in his ear so he could hear. “Henry?” There was no reply, just the beating of his own heart. “Gene!” Sam said, losing control and saying his name into the phone.

There was a dial tone then a click. He'd rung off. Or been forced to hang up. Sam replaced the handset on its base. His heart pumped anxiety through his lungs like blood, making it difficult to breathe. _Oh, shit_.

  
  



End file.
